


Whiskey, Thunderstorm and Desperation

by shiplocks_of_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Drinking, First Kiss, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Thunderstorms, Tumblr Prompt, actually from a joke about cliché descriptions for kisses that became a self-fulfilling prophecy, but only because he loves Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 23:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13891494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/pseuds/shiplocks_of_love
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is fearless.Except when it comes to John Watson.





	Whiskey, Thunderstorm and Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [Tumblr](https://shiplocks-of-love.tumblr.com/post/171428368347/whiskey-thunderstorm-and-desperation), from a silly prompt about 'what my shitty fanfiction kiss tastes like'. Here's my shitty kiss! So to speak.

Sherlock Holmes is no coward.

He has faced murderers, blackmailers, kidnappers, drug lords, thugs, burglars, psychopaths. He has had more than one brush with death.

Sherlock Holmes is _fearless_.

Except when it comes to John Watson. Specifically, an angry John Watson. More specifically, a John Watson angry at Sherlock. _Very_ specifically, a John Watson angry at Sherlock because Sherlock _did it again_.

Sherlock was reckless. He knows he was. It was a stupid idea. But he really needed a fresh sample of rainwater and there was a convenient thunderstorm and the rooftop of Barts was nearer than the main entrance. So the rooftop it was. And of course that was the moment John chose to come back from the coffee shop across the street, and _of course_ Sherlock was near the edge of the bloody rooftop because for all that he is a clever man, he is also sometimes very, very stupid.

And this is why John is now in their flat pouring three fingers of whiskey in a tumbler with shaky hands and flared nostrils, after stomping on seventeen steps ahead of an apologetic consulting detective, both of them soaking wet from the pouring rain.

“John.”

“I do not. Want to hear. Another word from you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stands next to his armchair and sees how John drinks a third of the tumbler in one go. “I do not know how to fix this, John. Except to apologise.”

John slams the glass down on the kitchen table, liquid sloshing over the edge, and turns fully to Sherlock. And Sherlock sees it all there, emotions chasing each other in his eyes: fear, anger, despair. Grief?

And now Sherlock is afraid. Maybe this would be it, the final drop, the last straw, the ultimate thing John would not forgive him. And now John is striding towards him and Sherlock has a fleeting thought that he deserves the incoming fist on his chin.

Except John does not punch him. Instead, he grips one of Sherlock’s lapels with one hand and the back of Sherlock’s neck with the other and smashes their mouths together in a bruising kiss.

For an agonising long second, Sherlock does not react, shocked by the unexpected turn of events, but then he parts his lips. And John kisses him deeper, plunders his mouth with all he has, and Sherlock tastes whiskey, thunderstorm and desperation in this kiss and it is _perfect_.

Sherlock gently wraps his arms around John’s shoulders, an undercurrent of fear still telling him to be careful, to not break this fragile moment. He feels John relaxing in his embrace and slowing the kiss to a gentle slide of lips, then to a stop. John looks up and Sherlock sees something else there now.

Something beautiful.


End file.
